


the more I want you, the more I love myself

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, character study but also smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 22:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: For some reason, Okita is the only one who sates Maou’s various hungers, and Maou keeps coming back to her.





	the more I want you, the more I love myself

**Author's Note:**

> i only wrote this because i was ENABLED on the way to PIZZA HUT

Maou's lips graze Okita's collarbone, draw a tremor from the smaller woman seated on her lap, her forehead dug into Maou's shoulder, glazed with sweat that she can't be sure is hers. "Too much?" she hums, a throaty sound that melts into laughter as Okita rocks her hips over Maou's thigh, pressing their bodies together.

"A little more."

It takes effort for Okita to voice those words; more to hold that voice steady. Fire crackles in Maou's smile as their lips meet again, her skin so hot that their parting is like Okita has stepped out into the air outside and its moonlight, which would reflect, Okita thinks, Maou.

Maou's hands slide down Okita's sides, over her hips, tense and grasping. Her kisses trail down the side of Okita's neck, equal parts tongue and teeth, to which Okita cranes her neck and bares it more. Maou's bite sinks firm into her skin, wins a ragged gasp and a subtle arching of Okita's back. There'll be marks there in the morning; too high for a scarf to hide, Maou's way of declaring Okita is _ hers_. Okita’s whine rattles against her jaw, cut short and captured by the hold Maou has on her windpipe. If Maou wanted, Okita knows she could bite down all the way, consume her in a way that her sickness no longer can. There’s a rawness to this vulnerability; it sends her blood racing and her hips bucking into Maou’s reaching palm, and yet for all of that, Okita knows Maou won’t do it. For some reason, Okita is the only one who sates Maou’s various hungers, and Maou keeps coming back to her.

Maou bears her down onto the futon and tugs at her obi, Okita’s clothes spreading in a sprawl beneath her like fresh paint on a canvas. The tasuki dangles limply from Okita’s fingers, held up in offering to Maou, the look in her eyes nothing short of reverent. No apprehension, only anticipation, the way things always are between them. Maou is Nobunaga in her fullness, and Nobunaga has never been one to run out of ideas.

“So, what shall we do tonight?” Maou purrs to Okita, taking the tasuki and winding it around one wrist. The cord threads through her fingers, pulled along by measured flicks of her thumb. Okita is reminded of their more religious comrades; Amakusa, kneeling in a quiet room, counting the rosary; but this is Maou, and any prayer whispered in her presence will be useless unless it’s meant for Maou, hushed whispers of her name accompanied by frenzied touches to her shoulder, her waist.

“What does the Demon King wish?” Okita counters, smiling defiantly. Maou does not value blind submission, but someone who can match her. Perhaps that’s why they meet so often in Okita’s room like this. One is the embodiment of power rising with the changing winds, the other, a bulwark that had sought to hold change back for as long as possible. And yet, Okita is no god or unknown mystery- she’s human, the very thing Maou loves, choosing to fight what Maou would have stood for until the very end.

Yes, Maou thinks, that’s why she’s so addicted to Okita. Even with death lingering in her body, Okita had never given up her ideals, never surrendered the idea that she might be able to one day return and keep fighting for her cause. She lets her fingers drape over the swell of Okita’s thighs, hoists her legs up over her shoulders, laughs as Okita’s shoulders knock against the floor beneath the futon and Okita scrambles to balance herself with her hands.

“This again?” Okita huffs, her bravado betrayed by the pink flush curling over her cheekbones. Maou has teased her often about it, asking if _ that _is why she’s called the Sakura Saber. “Finally running out of ideas?”

“You know better than to ask me that.” Maou’s smile is measured, patient. This is where she differs from all her other selves- they’re impulsive, headstrong, whereas she has- almost literally- all the time in the world. “Even someone like me enjoys revisiting old pastimes.”

“You call this- _ ah. _” Okita’s eyes squeeze shut, her voice pitching up an octave. Her hand scrambles to pull a pillow over her face, ends up clutching futilely at Maou’s, who’s already beaten her to it.

“No hiding this time.” Maou smirks down at Okita from between her legs, and the time for talk is over. Her tongue sweeps long passes over Okita’s folds, orbits her clit for a few heady seconds, returns to its original course. Okita whines, trembles, kicks her heels into the uneven plain of Maou’s back, where a thousand campaigns twine together in a mass of burns and cuts and bullet holes, the source of Maou’s fire, the reason for her mantle of Avenger. The people she had loved had feared her, hated her so deeply that no amount of adoration could change what the Throne of Heroes classed her as.

(But Okita is enough, her voice suspended in the air between them on a taut thread is enough, the softness of her skin and hair and breasts and touch is enough, and simultaneously insufficient. Maou wants to devour her, take her in body and sickness and all, but restrains herself, because she loves Okita- will never admit it, because closeness to something such as herself will only lead to getting burned- loves Okita all the same).

Maou pulls back to survey Okita, who shivers, eyes darting to scarcely meet Maou’s before flitting off again towards the ceiling, the walls. They’ve done this enough times for Maou to have lost count, and yet Okita never stops acting like the untouched, naive lover that had first graced Maou’s bed.

(Well, the gap in experience between them _ is _quite unbridgeable by any count, but it never fails to bring a smile to Maou’s face, anyway.)

“W-well?” Okita demands, the heaving of her chest and the wetness between her legs undermining the surprising force in her voice. “Are you just going to leave me hanging?”

“Of course not.” For every Nobunaga that had failed in their conquest of Japan, there is one that has succeeded in her; that doesn’t mean Maou isn’t one to relish in the inevitable victories, their sweetness offsetting the sting of her rare defeats. “But can’t I take a moment to appreciate my prize?”

“I’m not your-” And Okita’s breathless, her body is strained in a way even years of sickness had never taken a toll on her; Maou’s tongue and fingers work her with the expertise of someone who’s known her for a hundred lifetimes, and she can’t see anything but white. The ceiling is gone, there’s only Maou’s touch and Maou’s voice and Maou’s heat, and the rest must be the heaven that they say she’s the king of, a land that only Okita out of all of humanity has been granted access to. Her back lifts off the futon, her calves wrap tight around Maou’s neck and pull her closer, and the Demon King’s approval leaves her in flowing laughter, which cascades against Okita with all the might and thunder of a summer storm. In this moment, she _ is _ Maou’s, her beloved, her equal- and dimly, through the haze of orgasm in her mind, it registers that Maou is also _ hers_.

Maou unwinds Okita’s legs from around her shoulders, settles her gently against the sheets. A hand grasps either side of her kimono and pulls it shut, giving her the appearance of modesty as Maou reclines beside her, head propped on a lazy hand. Okita stares up at her, eyes unfocused, each breath slowly pulling her back into reality.

“Shall I stay with you tonight?” Maou asks, her smile showing teeth. It’s equal parts invitation and temptation, yet one Okita is free to refuse. She usually does- after all, one doesn’t keep lit lanterns in their bedroom overnight for a reason.

(Tonight, Okita feels reckless enough; Hijikata and Ryoma and even Ritsuka tell her that she’ll be burned away to nothing if she keeps staying near Maou, but she doesn’t mind, and perhaps that’s the true terror of her existence. It’s so easy to be drawn in, to crave more and more, but at heart, Okita knows she can only be one thing, Nobunaga, and Nobunaga will never be rid of Okita Souji no matter what happens, because fate has decreed it so).

A nod settles Maou at Okita’s side, and Okita shuffles closer wordlessly, lays her head on Maou’s chest. There’s the steady heartbeat she’s so often imagined herself falling asleep to, and just deeper, the fire that burns for her, all of Maou’s love for humanity focused into a single ember that rages in Okita’s presence. Maou’s arms engulf her, hold her close. It’s here that Okita finds her rest, held by an entity she should call her enemy, who obligingly leans down to kiss her one last time before Okita nestles into the safety of her touch.


End file.
